All in
by Margaux Chutney
Summary: What if Peter and Assumpta had given in to their feelings far earlier in the series? How would their relationship have progressed under they prying eyes of the parish? Will no doubt become an M-rated fic further down the line. Reviews heartily encouraged!
1. Chapter 1

It wasn't something she had ever volunteered, and yet he took it anyway. He'd take anything, that Priest of hers – her candour, her sense, her sanity. His obsession drove her to limits that she could not fully understand, not yet and never entirely. All Assumpta knew for certain was the beat of her heart quickening as he drew near; the shallow exhale of breaths as they stood, inches and yet miles away from one another, wishing so ardently for a life that wasn't theirs to live.

And yet, they'll take it anyway, even if it's just for now, just for tonight. They'll take this covenant with eyes wide open and both hands searching, purposefully, for a tether to this delinquent realm.

It was up to him to make the first move – the Priest realised this all too well. Gender politics aside, it was he who'd pursued her – he who'd orchestrated this entire event, away from the prying eyes of his devoted churchgoers. Peter clicked his tongue irritably against the roof of his mouth with the memory of them, his friends – his _parish_. What kind of example was he to be? The guilt tied in knots at the base of his stomach and almost made him want to leave – _almost_. But then he'd only have to snatch another look into those enduring eyes – those eyes which had been a deafening siren call since he'd first clapped eyes on Assumpta – to know this was _exactly_ where he needed to be.

Peter gathered up every last ounce of courage and placed his mouth against hers, for all but a moment. Fortified by her sighs, he tried again, pressing deeper this time, breaking the desperate hold of her gaze at last to do the thing he'd thought about every time he'd ever seen her – to kiss her, deeply and without restraint. Assumpta returned in kind immediately. This was wrong. This felt so alien to anything she'd ever experienced before and yet she trusted it. It was everything to her.

Painfully aware of his shaking hands he quietened them against her torso, gathering handfuls of loose fabric as he did. He inadvertently thumbed her ribcage, an unexpected slip which made this kiss, in all its innocence, something else entirely. Not an end but a precursor. A first act to the beginning of an affair.

They realised in unison that this kiss, as desperate and ardent and perfect as it was, wasn't enough. They needed more. Peter pulled away, on cue, completely unprepared for what was to come next. Did he want this? Could he even do this, _really_? As if reading his thoughts, Assumpta held his dampening head against hers.

"It's okay. Really, it is"

He breathed in her captivating scent – all soap and immersing pheromones. The hardness that he felt – quite regularly – when they were alone together, was an unwelcome distraction now. Peter did his best not to give it a vote.

"I want you, so much" he began, shakily.

"I know."

" – nothing else has come close." Peter risked a look in her direction. She caught his gaze with hers and its gravitas threatened to floor him. How could something as unique as this have found him?

"I know" Assumpta said with more determination this time. "You don't have to explain this to me. I know. I understand, believe me. I do."

She was rambling, she knew it but somehow Assumpta didn't care. After everything they'd been through together – the false starts and the cold feet – the awkwardness of their current situation was all water off a duck's back by now.

"It's just" she began, biting her lip to keep her resolve. "If you kiss me like that again, I don't… I don't think I can prevent – "

Assumpta needn't say anything else. Peter caught her mouth with his, once again, and kissed her deeply and relentlessly, so transfixed by his desire for the publican that all of his misgivings fettered away to nothing. He wanted her, for that much he was certain, but how far could that take him? To oblivion, no doubt.

"You sure?" Her breathless entreaty stole him back to the here and now. By way of a reply, he moved his mouth down the length of her body, trailing kisses in its wake. By the time Peter reached her navel, Assumpta was brought to her knees, both literally and figuratively as their passion summited to new and unfamiliar heights.

Far too easily, their clothes left them, balled in a pile at their feet. Far too easily, the grooves of their limbs fit together, like pieces of a puzzle which had been boxed away for too long. This was all far too easy – far too easy, until…

 _Creak._

Someone had come in.

They stilled to a halt. Peter hastily assessed their situation, hunkered down semi-nude in the cowshed of the abandoned O'Leary farm. This wasn't _meant to happen_. They were meant to be alone. Peter had asked the publican to meet him here, in this precise location because he had it on good authority that this farm had been left derelict for quite some time now. Even the teenagers had given it a wide berth owing to its proximity to the parish eccentric, Eamon Byrne's own cattle shed…

 _Oh_.

It suddenly became altogether too clear who had interrupted them. The faint smell of woodbines in the cold night air confirmed the fact – _Eamon_.

Assumpta seemed to make the same connection in unison with the curate but she, like him, daren't move a muscle. They were – thankfully – all but hidden from open view, but still, if the sheep farmer focussed adequately enough, their cover would be blown.

Seconds felt like minutes as Eamon lit up another cigarette. Peter vaguely remembered the farmer had pledged to give up smoking for lent – yet another vow which the O'Leary cattle shed was to be a safe haven from. Just how long he would be, was not abundantly clear, but owing to their precarious position, the pair had no other choice but to wait.

The entire time, thoughts raced through the curate's mind. The gravity of their situation wasn't lost on him. Never one to hold his water, Eamon had the ear of the village on most social occasions. If discovered, the parish would almost certainly be the first to know that the Priest and the publican had been caught doing, well, whatever it was they'd been doing before the interruption.

But, as fervent as his thoughts has been, Peter couldn't help but look at just what he had here. Assumpta was incandescent beneath the moonlight. He drank in her alabaster skin which felt so completely right pushed up against him. Assumpta couldn't help but watch the way he studied her, at once completely enamoured and yet befuddled, as if cracking a cryptic crossword for a chance to reap its spoils. It was almost as if the curate was deliberating just how to approach her next, a predicament that rendered gooseflesh on every inch of her alabaster.

Eamon's far off smoker's cough snapped the publican back to the here and now but, to Assumpta's surprise, Peter was immovable. His eyes, foggy with desire, never left and it occurred to her in that instant just how long Peter had waited for this.

He wasn't a virgin, of that she was certain, but for a man who joined the Holy Order shortly after Cambridge, Peter wouldn't have experienced anything resembling this for well over a decade. But that wasn't all – it was her, it was _them_. For two long years they'd stolen glances from across crowded rooms. A touch here, a cryptic admission there – theirs was a hard-fought for love which had earned its respite. Which made the latest, woodbine-hued disruption all the more difficult to bear. Was a little peace and quiet too much to ask for?

When Eamon did leave, the mood was entirely gone – for the publican at least. His intrusion was another in a long line of reasons why this whole situation was condemned from the outset.

"You okay?" Peter didn't even try to disguise his disappointment about how the evening's events had transpired.

Shimmying into her cotton dress, the publican muttered a nonchalant _hmmmm_ before rethinking her response, and giving his question the attention it deserved.

"It's never going to happen for us, is it?"

Peter feigned a good-humoured smile – "We certainly haven't had the best of starts."

"Doesn't bode well for the finish, does it." Her joke hung in the ether like the smell of woodbines. Bitter. Acerbic. Lost.

"I meant it, you know? What I said before, in the pub." Peter looked at Assumpta expectantly, imploring her to understand. To not give up so easily.

The publican thought about their earlier conversation – their reckoning of sorts. It was the only true conversation that they'd ever had – about _this_ at least. Peter had lain his cards on the table and she'd let down her guard for once. They'd agreed to explore these feelings which had refused to shift. They'd agreed to go the course.

"All in." Peter's ardent declaration snapped her into the here and now. "Whatever you want, Assumpta, whatever you need me to do… I'm all in."

The publican felt her knees quake and her heart swell from within. Normally one to take words at face value, somehow these stuck for Assumpta. It all that she needed

"We'll make it happen."


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2 – The Date**

Peter awoke the very next day with new eyes. Although experience had failed him, he had it on good authority that new relationships bring with them a whole melting pot of conflicting emotions which didn't belong in the same sentence, let alone emotional equilibrium.

Fear, elation, despair, joy – he'd had felt them all within the last 24 hours and the best was yet to come. The curate went about his usual morning routine – coffee, toast, teeth, shower – before dressing in his standard ecclesiastical attire, all the while, thinking of her.

He was always thinking about _her_.

Their situation was far from ordinary. He was still, for all intents and purposes, an ordained Priest – the gargantuan elephant in the room, which he and Assumpta were doing a stand up job of ignoring. His vow of celibacy didn't factor into their decision. It didn't get a vote. Perhaps it was implied that he should be seeking an exit from his vows – he was _all in_ after all. But somehow Peter didn't feel now was the right time to add another layer of complication to the mix.

It was an excuse – he knew that. In truth, he was afraid. The Church was all he'd ever known and although he'd made peace with the fact that this was an all-or-nothing situation they were in, Peter understood that there was a right way to leave, as well as a wrong one. He would leave, that much was certain, but he'd do it on his own terms – in his own timeline.

This did make episodes, like the one from last night, nigh on impossible while he still wore the collar – he realised as much now. Eamon's inadvertent intervention was perhaps a blessing in disguise. As with leaving the priesthood, there was a right way and a wrong way to consummate their relationship – and the decision to do either shouldn't be taken at all lightly.

Last night, he decided, was a one off – for now at least. As much as he wanted her, as much as he craved her, Peter needed to keep a sensible head and remember his resolution.

 _Whatever it takes, Assumpta… I'm all in._

For the good and the bad, he was all in. He'd do everything he could to make this work and if that meant waiting a little longer to finish that kiss – that ground-shattering kiss which even still, shook him to the core – he would. Because that was the right thing to do.

He just needed to keep convincing himself of that.

Assumpta was firmly aboard the same rollercoaster of emotions as the curate. Worry and frustration filled her every thought, but all the while she couldn't prevent herself from smiling.

Her good mood didn't go unnoticed by the regulars – Brendan, Padraig and Siobhan – who did a good job of propping up the bar this Friday lunchtime.

"Someone sure is please with themselves…"

"The cat that got the cream."

The publican dismissed their good-natured jibes with the usual repartee, which did nothing to quash their curiosity.

"C'mon, out with it Assumpta. Who's got you grinning from ear-to-ear?"

She shrugged, nonchalantly. "Who says it's a _someone_?"

Siobhan looked on doubtfully – "You don't wear a smile that wide without a _someone_ in the picture, that's for sure."

"We need a name, Assumpta."

As if on cue, Peter walked through the door.

"Peter." The publican made another attempt at nonchalance, checking and rechecking the cadence of her voice as she offered him a pint of stout.

If they picked up on anything, the regulars didn't give anything away, opting instead to return to a long-standing debate about the correct height of a head on Guinness.

Peter took a table at the far end of the bar, out of ear shot from anyone but Assumpta, if he had warranted her attention.

Which, following the activities of the previous night, of course he had.

"Looking pleased with yourself there, Father…"

"It is a rather spectacular day."

"Birds singing, sun shining…"

" – and the rest." Peter smiled dopily before adding, without a second thought, "I love you."

Assumpta had heard this from the curate before of course but it still caught her off guard. He'd hinted as much during those perilous, early declarations – all angst and abject torment. Then he'd said it again during the _all in_ conversation, more definitely this time, before assuaging her of his intentions – his confirmation that this thing he felt couldn't be ignored.

But no matter how often she'd heard it, each time caught her completely off guard.

And it was wonderful.

"Would you take that thing off before you say such a thing?" Never one to embrace sentiment, the publican instead drew attention to his very-real-and-very-current dog collar.

"Can't help it."

"I know." Assumpta sighed, playfully. "It's a problem."

A panicked expression crossed Peter's face. "The dog collar?"

"When coupled with _I love you._ " Assumpta clarified. "Surely that's a tenth date sort of assertion for a curate?" she joked, nervously

"Ten dates, you say?" Peter took a fortifying drag of his pint. "Strictly speaking we've yet to have a single one."

"Is that right?" She smirked, preventing herself from finishing the sentence with ' _and last night was…'_ Instead Assumpta took a breath. "How do the rules stand on asking a Priest out?"

Peter gulped. Would he always be this nervous around her? "Strictly verboten, I'd say."

"Verboten, huh?" The publican smiled. "How do the rules stand on being invited out for a free supper on the Brewery's dime?"

"A Brewery dinner, you say?"

"Perks of the job."

"Well, who ever said no to a free meal?"

"It's a date, then." Assumpta smirked, vindicated. "Or not-quite-a-date."

The curate leaned in, noticeably closer, as he told Assumpta in a hushed tone, "I'd call it a date."

"A date." Assumpta's smile reached her eyes – an expression which, as every past or present BallyK resident would attest to, was as rare as hen's teeth. But lately, this disgruntled publican had been doing a lot of smiling. In fact, recently, Assumpta Fitzgerald had been doing very little else.

And it made the curate love her all the more.

"Tonight?" he asked, before quickly adding "It's been a while since I picked up anyone for a date so you'll have to refresh me on the specifics."

Assumpta met him halfway across the bar, before telling him "Well, I think it's customary for you to arrive at eight. To bring the Javelin, of course."

"Of course."

"To wear something other than – _this_ " Assumpta gestured to the Priest's current attire.

"Not sure I own anything else, but go on…"

"and you're to have me home before 11" she added with a smile. "Curfew."

Peter beamed from ear to ear. "And flowers? Don't the men in the talkies always bring flowers?"

"Customarily, something with carnations."

"I'll take a look in Hendley's"

"Don't even think about it."Never one to adhere to proper date convention, she was touched by the sentiment all the same. She had a date with Peter. They were actually going to go on a date! Her stomach flipped in anticipation.

Peter drained his pint in one fell swoop and stood up to leave.

"I'll see you tonight, then" he said just loud enough for her to hear him.

Assumpta fell back onto her other foot, unaware that's she'd been doing a precarious balance this entire time. She watched the Priest leave. _Her_ Priest – her Peter – before allowing herself the luxury of a fresh intake of breath.

They were going on a date. An actual date. Sometimes she felt the need to pinch herself about how well this was all going. Last night's unfortunate interruption aside, they were off to a good start. It was so entirely refreshing to be with a man who made good on his intentions. A man who spelled out how he felt before they progressed any further. Every man in Assumpta's life had disappointed her in that respect. Whether it was her father, who kept her at arm's length right up to his dying day, or the men who'd come before and since, _men_ who insisted on playing those tiresome games which she'd never had an ounce of energy for.

Assumpta always spoke in plain English – and she liked to surround herself with people who did the same. Peter had forever been an enigma to the publican, which frustrated and intrigued her in equal measure. Sure, he'd piqued her interest over the years – this much was certain, but Assumpta could never relinquish that nagging doubt that she was being set up for an almighty fall. She was going to get hurt.

Now at last, he was speaking to her in the right language. They were on the same page. He loved her. They were dating. Let the chips fall where they may, she could at the very least hold onto this.

And yet again, the publican smiled from ear to ear.

...

 _Thank you for all of the love for this story! Your reviews really make my day._


	3. Chapter 3

Niamh Egan prided herself on being a tolerant woman. Venerating, no. Compassionate, not always – but tolerant. Tolerant of other people and their foibles. Tolerant of her husband's houseguests who had overstayed their welcome. Tolerant, yes – but at the end of her tether also.

His name was Donovan Sinclair (Donovan – _imagine_!) and he'd been her husband Ambrose's international pen pal since they were all of thirteen years old. Hailing from Calgary, Alberta, Donny and he had been exchanging long-winded, poorly spelled letters for well over a decade and so, it seemed only natural that the pair should meet. At first, Niamh was all for the visit. _Grand_ , she thought – a person to supplant her role as Player Two in her husband's vast array of video games. Plus, the congenial Donny wasn't so bad to look at – all pecks and chiselled cheekbones. Perhaps he'd encourage her husband to _up his game_ – or at the very least, develop standards about wearing _Final Fantasy_ pyjamas at the weekend.

But no. Sadly, none of this had occurred. Not even the video games. The truth was that Donny, off the back of a particularly bad break up back home, was only interested in lamenting his poor fortune to his unwitting hosts. Night after night, the Egan's had no other choice but to provide a sounding board, punctuated with strategically-placed "ummms" and "ahhs", while Donny recanted stories from his ill-fated romance.

"You know what I need?" he announced to the Egan's that Friday morning, four days into his burdensome visit. "A holiday fling. A date. Know anyone you can set me up with?"

As if on cue, Ambrose turned to his wife with an optimistic look all over his face. Seven years together and Niamh knew exactly how to read her husband. _No_ , she mouthed. Assumpta would hate it…

"I know just the woman."

….

"No."

"Please Assumpta, just this once. You never know, you might actually get on…"

Ambrose had caught the publican as she was loading empty beer barrels into a van – a decidedly good situation to find her in since she shrewdly was never one to turn down free labour.

"I'm not interested in a _set up_." Assumpta rolled another keg to her friend as he loaded it onto the truck.

"It's not a set up – just some fun. Young folk going out for the evening. You never know, you might actually like it?"

"I'm not so young and neither are you."

"Okay, okay – look can I level with you? Donny, well, he's being going through a bit of a rough time, romantically speaking…"

"Be still my beating heart."

"Assumpta, he's really hurting – he could use a confidence boost, you know? Someone to laugh at his jokes and listen to his stories."

"How long have you known me, Ambrose? Since when do I laugh at anyone's jokes?"

" – but you do listen," he interjected. "You're a _grand_ listener and that's exactly what he could use. An eligible woman to give him the time of day. It would mean the world to him – to us, even."

Assumpta turned to Niamh, sitting on the sidelines of this particular repartee. "And you – are you in on this too?"

Niamh shook her head. "Melancholy aside, he's not a bad bloke, you know." She punctuated the sentiment with a shrug. "Who knows, you may even fancy him."

"Said with so much conviction."

"Assumpta, I never ask you for anything – I work extra shifts at a moment's notice, I clean the optics when no one else does – " Niamh took a laboured breath. "Do this one thing for Ambrose and I, will you just? Come out with us tonight."

The publican grimaced. The Egan's were right of course. Collectively, they'd done more for Assumpta than the entire village combined. She owed them this.

"Fine…" she muttered reluctantly.

"Thank you!" Ambrose was positively giddy in response. "You're a good friend, 'sumpta. We won't forget this!"

"Don't go thinking I'll let you."

"I mean it – lock-ins, sorry _Private Parties,_ all forgotten – have as many as you like. Throw one for the four of us tonight, even."

A sudden panic rose in Assumpta's throat. "Wait, tonight? I can't make tonight. I'm meeting Peter – "

Niamh shot her friend a confused look. "As in Clifford? As in the _curate_? What on earth do you have to do with him on a Friday night?"

Assumpta thought fast on her feet – "Charity" she blurted, unconvincingly. "We're arranging a charity sale... you know, a what-da-ya-call-it."

"Auction?" Ambrose added, always the know it all.

"Auction, yes." The publican retorted, gratefully. "A blind auction. At the pub. I'm donating a keg."

Niamh was less convinced than her husband, but accepted it anyway. "Well, he can come too then."

"Peter?"

"Sure – I don't reckon it'll take all evening to work out the specifics of your _auction_."

Just as she was about to think of another unconvincing excuse, Ambrose clapped his hands together and declared, "That's grand, then" signalling the end of the discussion.

"We'll pick you up around seven and all go to Cilldargan." Niamh ushered her husband to leave, before adding "Assumpta, weren't you given those dinner vouchers from your man at the Brewery? We can use those!"

"Now there's a thought" her friend replied, morosely.

As she watched them leave, Assumpta tried to quell the knot of disappointment that was forming in her stomach. It seemed entirely unjust – first Eamon and now the Egan's. Wouldn't anyone in this village give her and Peter a fighting chance?

It was all coincidental, of course. How were they to know? Perhaps if they'd gone public, the response would be different altogether. Assumpta shuddered at the thought. The idea of everyone knowing… the fear of being looked at and openly gossiped about. Assumpta Fitzgerald didn't like everyone knowing her business and once the news of this broke out, it'd be open season in Ballykissangel.

They would have to find out eventually of course but, more than anything, Assumpta wanted to break the news on her own terms – to her own schedule. Right now, Peter and she were just finding their feet – discovering new things about one another. For now, it should just be about the two of them.

The knot in her stomach tightened. How would she break the news to Peter about tonight? This was important – their first date. Could it be postponed? Not without raising suspicion from an already curious Niamh.

Assumpta glanced up at the relentless toll of the church bells, before deciding it was far too late to do anything about it now. She vowed to corner Peter later to explain the situation. For now, all she could do was pack up the last of the empty beer barrels and head inside to pour pints for the very same mouths which would be spreading idle gossip about her and the curate before long.

…

 _Thanks again for all of the love that this story is getting. Your reviews are the best! I've been away for some time so i'm catching up on all of the terrific stories supplied by some of my lovely reviewers - here's looking at you Flashsil, LMS5XP, Guiltypleasureffnet and Ezikiel28._


	4. Chapter 4

Peter felt decidedly foolish driving the Javelin 100 meters down the road to Fitzgeralds. Still, what Assumpta wants, Assumpta gets. He thought he'd be better off observing this from the outset.

It had been a decidedly full-on day after he left Fiztgerald's. There were books to balance, babies to baptise and a _Bridezilla_ to placate. All in day's work, thought the curate as he naturally took the front door into the pub.

Peter immediately regretted this lapse in judgement.

The pub was rammed – the bar, full up with the usual suspects and every table occupied with a sea of grey hair and unfamiliar faces. A passing tour bus here to see the forty shades of green, no doubt. Assumpta was flustered behind the bar, looking decidedly more aggravated than she had done, eight hours earlier. She was dressed conventionally in her usual free flowing skirt and red button-up cardigan which made Peter feel slightly overdressed in his especially-ironed charcoal shirt and slacks.

"Dressed to impress I see there, Peter." Brendan Kearney beckoned his friend over to the bar stools. "Big Friday night plans?"

"You could say…" he agreed, cryptically. Here was where Peter had a very real difficulty. Brendan, he considered to be a friend – a good friend, and not one he'd ever, in all good conscience, lie to. Which made interludes such as this tricky to navigate. Of course, he couldn't freely announce that he had a hot date with the most eligible woman in the village but, similarly, he couldn't outright lie. Fortunately for him, Niamh appeared from behind the bar to save the day.

"Father, all ready for tonight?"

Peter stared blankly back at the barmaid. Did Assumpta really confide in her about tonight? He decided to hedge his bets. "Yes, I think so" he announced, unsteadily.

"Grand. That's grand." Niamh beamed. "I know we're gate-crashing and all, but I'd hope you forgive the intrusion. Plenty of time to speak about charity auctions another time, eh?"

Now he was really confused. Peter searched for the sea of heads for the raven-haired publican but upon drawing a blank, settled for a "Hmmm-mmm" by way of response.

Ambrose suddenly appeared from nowhere, along with another new and wholly unfamiliar face; _Donny_ – they were soon introduced. As Donny went off to buy drinks, Ambrose led the curate away. "We're bringing him along for Assumpta" he informed him, conspiratorially.

"Oh yes?" Peter tried to quell the unease he felt. What was once a date with the woman he'd adored for years had now become something altogether different. "Does Assumpta know?"

"She's all for it." Ambrose added with a wink. "I mean, you and I are really the only real eligible bachelors in BallyK – and I'm no longer a bachelor and you're not so eligible." The Garda laughed at his own observation – someone had to, at least. "But seriously, my friend Donny – he's a good man, you know? He's my age, single, has a good trade – she could do a lot worse. And we both know she's been known to make a few bad choices more than once be-"

"Well, thanks for that." A soft Irish voice came up from behind them. From out of nowhere, Assumpta appeared alongside Niamh. She shot Peter a feeble look, full to the brim with contrition. Try as she might, Assumpta hadn't managed to escape the bar all afternoon and pre-warn the curate about the change to this evening's plans. It didn't help that Ambrose had seemingly filled him in with the details – "but I'll stick with my bad choices."

At that, Peter smiled at his feet. He liked being a bad choice.

On cue, Donny returned with a dusty bottle of Fitzgerald's finest Champagne and five glasses.

"Donny, this is Father Peter Clifford, the village curate and _this_ is Assumpta."

The Canadian quickly shook the curate's hand before turning his undivided attention to his hot date for the evening. "What an unusual name – Assumpta. _As_ \- sumpta. Well, I _assume_ you like Champagne, Assumpta?"

"Well, you know what they say about assumption…" the publican retorted, under her breath.

Peter let out a belly laugh, disguising it quickly as a cough. "A pleasure, Donny" he managed as soon as he'd regained control of his faculties.

The group worked through the bottle of Champagne and as they did so, Peter began to piece together what had happened since he'd left Assumpta earlier that day. Tonight was meant to be his first date with Assumpta – now it had some how materialised into her first date with _that_ guy.

"I'm so sorry" she managed to catch Peter before they set off to the Javelin. "I'm so, so sorry."

"Can't be helped, Assumpta" he managed by way of reply. Realising how pouty that sounded, Peter tried again "I mean, I understand. You did what you had to do."

"You don't have to stay? I mean, we can make an excuse…"

"I'll stay" he asserted, quickly. "Someone needs to make sure your date doesn't get too overfamiliar."

"Overfamiliar? You're not actually jealous, are you? He's a cartoon."

Peter smirked unhappily. "A cartoon that gets to hold you hand tonight."

Assumpta was momentarily stunned by this honest assertion. That's what he actually thought? That her attention could be so easily won by another? She moved to scold him, but instead closed the three steps between them and caught Peter's hand with her own.

"My hand is already full."

If it was at all possible for Peter to love her any more, he would in this instant. It was a risky move – their friends were just a few feet away but somehow she didn't seem to care. He held their joined hands behind his back so as not to draw attention but he basked in every moment, running his thumb along the underside of her wrist as he did so.

"I call front seat!" called out Ambrose, an exclamation which snapped their hands apart and put an end to their reverie.

Their moment broken, Assumpta took a seat at the back of the car, sidled up far too close to Donny in the curate's opinion. She caught the Priest's disapproving expression in the rear-view and shot him a regretful look.

This was going to be a long night.

…

Dinner had been a disaster.

To said that Donny was overfamiliar would be an understatement. Peter had to endure countless displays of affection, watching as his hand edged perilously close to Assumpta's knee throughout the course of the evening. On one occasion, it looked as if he was even going to kiss her.

Donny hung off her every word – even the ones telling him to keep to his side of the table. He listened to the publican's stories and laughed in all of the right places. In short, he behaved exactly like someone who was on a date would.

And exactly how Peter couldn't.

The whole evening had put the him in a bad mood – and although Assumpta did nothing to encourage this attention, she bore the brunt of it.

After they dropped the Egan's and Donny back home, Peter drove the rest of the way back to Fitzgerald's in silence. As they parked around the back, Assumpta made an attempt at a conversation – "So, this evening was…"

After he didn't finish her sentence, she tried again. "Peter, I'm sorry about tonight. I've told you this. What else could I do?"

At this the curate pricked up his ears. "You could have been honest, maybe? Told them what tonight really was."

"Now you're being facetious."

"I'm serious" he snapped. "What's wrong with telling them? They're going to find out eventually."

Assumpta wiped an errant curl from her face. She was too tired for _this_ conversation. "It's not the right time, you know this. We know this."

Her companion made an audible _tsk_ and turned his head to stare out of the window, seeming uninterested in where this conversation was heading.

She continued, regardless. "We agreed that this should just be about us for now. No other people."

"Well so far it's only been about other people – Eamon, the Egan's…" and bitterly, he added " _Donny_."

"As frustrating as this is, we can't do anything about it."

"We can."

"So, tell them? That's your great solution?" Assumpta felt that infamous Fitzgerald temper rise. "You think we'll get privacy if they know? You think they'll all just leave us alone?"

"I'm not saying it won't be hard – "

"It'll be impossible, Peter!" The publican realised this was fast becoming their first fight – one, perhaps, that they couldn't recover from unless she tried to calm down. "Look," she added after a beat. "You didn't grow up in this village – I did. These people, they're like bloody elephants, they never forget. You have one transgression and you'll carry it for the rest of your life."

Something told Peter that this was the voice of experience speaking.

"We need to be sure before we tell them. You – you need to be sure that this is what you want. That I'm what you want." She paused, her next words catching in her throat. "You can't love us both, Peter."

He knew instantly what she meant – her or the Church. It was a fair assessment but that didn't stop it from feeling like a low blow.

"I've made my decision…"

"I know – but I can't be the only reason."

He turned to look at her. "You what?"

"Your decision to leave the priesthood – it would happen anyway even if I weren't here?"

Peter couldn't believe what he was hearing. "Can't you be enough?"

"No." she said quietly. "We can't know what we'll be like together – we have no idea whether this will work out."

"Stop, Assumpta – just stop."

"It's a valid point – we haven't so much as spent the night together. How do we know this will work out?"

"It's called faith" he answered quietly.

Neither said anything after that. Assumpta stayed in the car for a full minute before quietly leaving without looking back.

As first fights go, this was pretty awful. At least they'd had the chance to have it though, she thought. First kiss, first date – both had had its audience. It seemed bittersweet that their first argument should happen alone.

 _It's called faith_. Assumpta shuddered at his words. Faith was the thing that they'd never agree on. He had it in buckets while she was an arid wasteland. When something came down to clear and simple faith, she couldn't count on it. Peter, on the other hand, would put his whole life on the line because of it – he'd give up everything he's ever known, everything he is, all because of a little thing called –

"Assumpta."

His northern baritone broke her train of thought. Assumpta turned to face him, realising for the first time that she'd been crying. She'd made it as far as the pub kitchen but had neglected to close the door behind her and there he stood, staring at her so intently she thought she might dissolve into the ether.

"You have to trust me with this. Trust in my decision."

Above everything, Assumpta wanted to be able to do this. She nodded indeterminately which was enough of a signal for Peter to go in further.

"I know what I'm doing." He reached out his hand to press against her face – that perfectly symmetrical face which Peter couldn't quite believe he was touching. He felt a familiar tug from his pelvis, a side effect from being in such close proximity with the only woman he'd ever loved.

"Peter – "

Her utterance, spoken in warning or something else altogether, fell away into nothing as the Priest closed the gap between them. Catching her hesitations in his mouth, he hoped that this conversation was the last of its kind and their future existed in this moment – this sweet, passion-filled moment that was a bounty of pleasure and hope.

There would be tempestuous skies ahead, this much was certain but for now, they had this – a rich and permissive interlude, a respite from the storm.

And, if they were lucky, just a little bit of privacy.

...

 _Just a heads up, the rating will change from the next chapter... there be dragons ahead :)_


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N - Here be dragons..._ _M-rated content ahead._

...

She awoke before dawn to the sound of him dressing. Peter cursed quietly as he tried to reunite his discarded shoes and socks – a job made all the more difficult without any natural light.

Assumpta leaned back on her pillow, basking in what had happened – and what very nearly could have happened. He'd spent the night. Peter – _her Peter_ – had actually slept in her bed, in her sheets, on her pillow. It felt too giddy to be real. She rolled over to his side of the bed – no longer that sad and redundant area which she usually kept her robe and magazines. _His side._ It was still warm from where he'd lain, his large and awkward frame positioned gawkily on her queen-sized double. The landlady made a mental note to buy a new bed – one they could shop for and choose together; one where there'd been no one else – a fresh start for them both.

"Did I wake you?"

His soft, tender voice seem to lull her from her musings. "I don't think I've actually been to sleep."

"Me either," he smiled, still giddy from what they shared. But what did they share? Peter wasn't entirely sure of the naming conventions. It was more than he'd done with a woman in over a decade, but less than he'd done before. Whatever it had been, it had incited something extraordinary in the curate – he now wanted more. And more and more and more.

Their eyes locked in the darkened room. It was an unspoken rule by now that when such a thing happened, they'd close whatever space was between them and embrace, hungrily and without restraint. It was, of course, Peter who buckled first – surrendering his search for his lost garments and succumbing to the temptations that were fast becoming the only thing that mattered.

In one unsteady movement, he kneeled precariously against the bed, drawing her naked frame close against the length of his body. "How do you do this to me?" he grumbled rhetorically into the crook of her mouth as they met.

Assumpta wanted to think up a comeback for their repartee but her head, along with her mouth, was otherwise engaged.

He kissed her as passionately and as deeply as he had done before – it felt so strange for it to feel so right. Every boyfriend of hers to date had invariably done something to rob her of that heady thrill that a really good kiss can give you – too much pressure or not enough; an unsolicited grope administered 'to move things along'. But with Peter, this kiss was _everything_. They existed in this kiss.

When his mouth found hers, the world seemed to melt away along with all of the people in it. If anything, it was Assumpta who'd administered the unsolicited gropes 'to move things along'. It was what felt natural to her; when something felt as unequivocally good as this, she'd always want more. That was the human condition.

However, since that unfortunate intervention in the O'Leary shed, Peter had been holding back. Whether it was with the intensity of his kiss or the fact that they'd been entirely naked in her bedroom all night without moving passed second base, everything indicated that something was amiss.

Did he regret what almost happened? Was he having second thoughts?

In truth, the publican was too much of a coward to bring this up in her usual plain spoken manner. Better she should coax it out of him, tempt him from his vows in a manner that any flesh and blood male would have trouble refusing. As their kiss deepened, she seized her opportunity, running her feather light fingertips along the length of his torso and the band of his boxers. As she drew her hand deeper, it elicited a throaty growl from the curate. He tore away from her kiss but remained as still as a statue, his forehead pressed against hers. He was hard and wet against the palm of her hand. As she began to run her firmly cupped hand along the length of his shaft, Peter winced as if in pain. If this weren't immediately followed by an ecstatic sigh, she may have believed it, but every micro expression he emitted implored her to continue.

His hands fell to her breasts as she worked him up, fumbling nervously as if she were the first woman he'd held in this way. She moved to cover her free hand over his, positioning them firmly around her nipple, entreating him to touch her this way.

She felt that he was close. His cock was saturated in pre-come, it felt sticky to the touch. She fought the urge to take him how she wanted to, to feel him gush in between her legs; the ultimate betrayal of his vows. Instead Assumpta whispered next to him, "I'd like to try something."

Peter's eyes shot open as she said this, filled with both fear and delight. Wordlessly, he let her, allowing himself to be pushed back against the mattress as she straddled her legs around his waist.

"Not – not that. Not yet." he besought her suddenly, immediately pulling back.

If she felt at all burned by this dismissal, Assumpta didn't show it. Instead she whispered "Shhh – you have to trust me," echoing his previous night's words to her.

He tensed every muscle but lay statue-still. Peter cursed his protestations – why was he so afraid of going all the way? He wanted and feared it in equal measure, hoping beyond hope that he'd eventually be able to let go in that respect. For now, he focussed instead on the little things – the way her hair smelled of herbs and honey; of the way her mouth left hot wet trails of saliva as she ran it down the entire length of his body.

 _Oh…_

This was entirely new territory for the curate. As her mouth tasted every inch of skin and devoured each appendage, Peter was pushed unwittingly the point of no return – whatever that was. He felt that together they'd summited a cliff-face and now were edging perilously close to the brink. As if on cue, she took his entire length in her mouth, an act which quietened his inhibitions and made the curate cry out pleadingly in addled rapture –

"Assumpta…"

Her name was heard as eagerly as it was spoken. In the publican's mind, it had signalled a power shift – a new set of standards. Rather than leaving it to him to denote the way of things, this was now the new normal. Her Brave New World. Why did she like the control? What made her keep chasing this feeling? The answer was surprisingly simple. She was in love. When you loved another as ardently as she did, it would put you in a spiral. It was only when you realised the extent to which they loved you back, how much they needed you, are you able to claw back some element of self-governance.

"Assumpta," her name was spoken urgently this time, as if she were about to be given warning. "Assumpta – I'm going to… I can't stop" Peter shifted his hips as if to move away, to save them both from the embarrassment of his ejaculation. But to his heady bewilderment, she didn't move an inch – this was a new world after all. Peter would just have to get used to it.

His utterances of expletives and apologies as he came did nothing to smother the mood, nor the satisfaction she felt at being the trigger of such raw emotion. It was apparent in that moment that this had been a first for the curate, something which was immediately confirmed as he rambled on involuntarily afterwards – "Is it always like that? I mean, was it okay?"

Assumpta smiled into their now shared pillow. "It was everything."

"Thank you" he smiled that adorable Clifford smile before instantly regretting his words. "Sorry, that was stupid. You probably guessed that I'm a novice."

"Of saying thank you?"

"Of being in bed with a beautiful woman."

Assumpta let her bashfulness take hold. "Ahhh, you'll get used to it."

"I intend to." They shared a comfortable silence before Peter, with his new-found tendency for post-coital rambling, spoke again. "I can't believe that I get to be here – that I get you."

Again, the publican deflected his sweet words with a sigh.

"I mean it.

"Think I should hold out for a Bishop?" Assumpta smiled wryly, her head shifted so as to snuggle comfortably into the crook of his arm. Her question remained unanswered as she noticed that he was falling asleep.

Peter, missing his cue entirely, mumbled sleepily moments later – "could put in a good word" before sleep took hold and he was off, softly snoring.

 _Great_ , thought the publican. _Another thing I'll have to get used to._

But somehow she didn't think she'd mind.


	6. Chapter 6

Peter awoke to the smell bacon cooking and the sound of fresh coffee percolating. There were better ways to wake up, he imagined, but this had to be up there too. In the broad light of day, finding his discarded clothes was a fair bit easier so he dressed briskly and made his way downstairs to find Assumpta tending to her eggs over the Aga.

Peter snaked an arm around her waist and kissed her on the nape. "You're making me breakfast?"

"Because you think you've earned it" she replied, wryly.

"I don't think anyone's made me breakfast before" he took a seat at the table, beautifully set with cloth napkins and Denby china. "Well, apart from my mother."

"Don't go mixing us up there – you can take out your own bloody laundry." Assumpta placed a full Irish breakfast in front of Peter and took the seat beside him. He noticed with regret that she wasn't eating with him.

"Not a fan of breakfast?"

"I have to open up" she added regretfully. "Saturday may be your day off but it's my busiest."

The curate took a mouthful of white pudding and reached over the table to take her hand. "Breakfast, brains and beauty – how did I get so lucky?"

The publican smiled, wickedly. "Not forgetting blow jobs, of course," she whispered, picking up and eating a streak of crispy bacon from his plate.

Peter spluttered his coffee, his embarrassment self-evident. "Blatant too, I see."

They sat in a comfortable silence as the curate finished off the rest of his breakfast, Assumpta watching him in-between mouthfuls of tea. "So, did I pass?" she asked him eventually, clarifying it with "Will there be a second date?"

"If they're a patch on this one, you can have a hundred."

Assumpta stood up smiling, "I'll take that" she told him, making her way to open up the bar.

Peter sat back on his chair, balancing precariously on its hind legs – a habit he'd developed since school when he was mulling something over. _A hundred dates…_ with the luck they'd been having, a tenth of that number would be out of the question. So where did that leave them? Peter hadn't the foggiest. All he knew for certain was that they needed as much time as they could muster as a couple – free from interruption and secrecy. They needed time to be alone or this thing that they were trying so ardently to foster was already dead in the water.

Now, as circumstance had clearly demonstrated, this could never be while they resided in the village. But what if they got away for a bit? Peter made a mental check of his diary. Nothing pressing was happening until the latter half of next week. Even tomorrow's Mass had been cancelled owing to the asbestos problem at his Church.

He was a free agent, so to speak.

Suddenly the kernel of an idea began to form in the curate's head – they could go away for a few days. Not a million miles away but enough, to a place where no one knew them; a sanctuary of sorts. Peter conjured up images of lazy breakfasts in bed and long walks with the paper. He fantasised about what it would be like to go to bed with and wake up to Assumpta Fitzgerald every day. His mind couldn't help but covet the possibility of more nights, like last night, spent exploring the curves and crevices of her naked body; of having her do things to his body that still, strictly speaking, he couldn't quite understand.

He was determined to make this happen.

Stepping though to the, thankfully, empty bar Peter corned the publican by the cellar.

"We have a week – maybe two" he began in earnest.

"Before?" she returned, a little uncertain.

"Before our false starts and missed opportunities begin to take hold." Peter took her hand between his, irritated that this conversation also ran the risk of being interrupted. "I can't chaperone another date with you and Donny."

"Peter," she smiled broadly. "That is _not_ going to happen."

"Well, I can't pretend to be nothing of any consequence while I'm around you. I can't enter a room with you in it and not immediately want to kiss you or to talk to you, or hold your hand..."

On cue, he took her hand and began to study it as he looped fingers around fingers, forgetting where his began and hers ended.

"Then what do you suggest?"

He took a breath in attempt to keep his voice level as he asked her "I'd like to go away with you. Today – or tonight. As soon as you can manage. I want to be alone with you, somewhere else – somewhere new. Somewhere we've never been before."

"Somewhere that doesn't know our story" she added, after a beat.

Peter shot a relieved smile her way. _She understood_. "I want to go back to basics – to harness that feeling I had when I first said that I loved you, when I pledged to be all in, and to run with it and see where it goes."

The curate hesitated with the next bit. "I want to sleep with you – well, not sleep but the other thing. I want that so much – so, so much. You have to believe that. But I think you know, that's a big thing for me. Huge. And it's not the vows – although they're a reason. It's just very, very important that this is right, that the occasion calls for it. Ugh." Peter crumbled. Even to him, his words weren't making sense anymore. "All I mean is… I need your understanding."

Assumpta was rendered speechless at everything she'd just heard. He'd poured his heart out and all she could do was stand, slack-jawed before him.

"Do I have it?"

As if on cue, it was Assumpta's turn to speak. "Always" she managed as sincerely as she could. Of course she'd give him time if that was what was needed, but it still didn't help her to know where she stood.

Peter exhaled, relieved. "And the trip… you'll come away with me?"

This was easier to answer. Would she, Assumpta Fitzgerald, abandon her weekend of domestic servitude to a roomful of ungrateful Bible-bashers and tourists? "Try to stop me."

Peter beamed from ear to ear. It was _exactly_ what he wanted to hear.

…

It was past midnight before they set off on the open road for their little holiday. Although it all felt particularly cloak and dagger, their timing was down to circumstance above anything else. Assumpta needed to wait for last orders before she could evict everyone and add a sign to the door advising the village that Fitzgerald's would be closed until Wednesday for line cleaning.

"Line cleaning? What's that when it's at home?" Peter looked particularly suave on the driver's side of the Javelin, dressed in a navy fisherman's jumper and jeans.

"Cleaning all of the beer lines to the pumps – you wouldn't believe what gets in there."

"Not just beer?" he asked, without really wanting an answer.

"You don't want to know."

"I believe you," he relented. "What I do want to know," Peter added immediately after "is where I'm supposed to be taking you?"

Assumpta studied the map laid out in front of her. "So far, that's tough to know…" The publican folded it awkwardly to focus on their immediate area. "You see, we should head to somewhere close – I'm dying to get to bed" she announced with a yawn.

"I'm dying to get you into bed," he replied with smirk.

"…but this is County Wicklow and we've ties to almost every village and town that's here."

"Popular people."

"Dublin?" she volunteered weakly.

"I don't know…" replied the curate. "I might lose you to a wine bar or some such."

"Tsk – don't start that again." Their inside joke made the couple smile weakly, mostly out of relief. Their painful past, filled with futile longing and uncertainty was somewhere that they'd never have to go again – it wasn't on their road map.

"I like Dublin," he offered eventually.

"Plenty of seedy hotels for unmarried folk," Assumpta agreed with a wry smile.

Something burnt a hole in the curate's breast pocket as she said this. He took a steady sigh of relief when she changed the subject.

"Ah, like this one. Just off the M50."

"A services, Assumpta? Really?"

The publican smirked sarcastically, "Know anywhere else which would admit guests at this ungodly hour?" she paused, not really waiting for an answer. "Look, it's not a services. Independently run and not a petrol pump in sight – see?"

Assumpta showed him the advert next to the muddle of lines delineating the M50 Orbital. _Meadows Retreat_. It sounded like a rehabilitation centre. "Look, it's not far." she added. "In under an hour we'll be pillaging their Honesty Bar and eating complimentary macadamias to our heart's content."

"I think you've some high expectations for this place." Peter envisaged torn wallpaper and a Norman Bates-esque host. But still, it was close and they'd never heard of it before which – more importantly – meant the owners would have never heard of them.

 _Seclusion. Privacy_ … Peter gulped in giddy anticipation about what would come from it. "I'm in." he told her, with a little too much conviction in his voice.

...

 _A/N - Sappy, yes but fear not, there'll be lemons ahead (and more dragons - obvie). I'm trying to stay a chapter ahead so I can continue with these daily updates. I feel I need to apologise for neglecting to finish my last fic - for three long years! Suffice to say, this one won't fall into the same trap. I have an ending mapped out. For now though, let me know what you think? Reviews are adored!_


	7. Chapter 7

Upon arrival at the Meadow Retreat, it turned out that both Peter and Assumpta had been a little bit right. The hotel was vast – Honesty Bar and complimentary macadamias as standard. Surrounded by rolling countryside, the gentle hum of the M50 could be largely ignored. The advert boasted a 24-hour check-in desk – something that the pair were counting on and thankfully, weren't misled with.

The check-in clerk did, however, have something of the Norman Bates about her – a theory which was fortified when she introduced herself as Norma.

"Norma? That's unfortunate."

Peter's ill-thought observation seem to rile up their host who, dressed in her curlers and nightwear, was already deterred by her guests.

"It's just the film, _Psycho_ – you know? Norma-n Bates?" he clarified weakly. "You own a hotel…"

Norma bristled his comment away as if she hadn't heard it. "I trust you'll be needing two rooms?"

Assumpta elbowed her companion in the ribs to prevent him from making yet another contentious comment. 'No, just the one is fine. A King Double if you have it?" Being in the hospitality industry herself, she prided herself on knowing exactly what to ask for in such places.

"Forgive me," their host began. "This is a god-fearing place and I didn't notice a ring. Are you lawfully married?"

Assumpta couldn't believe what she was hearing – and she thought Ballykissangel was bad. Was this hotel really going to turn down good business if its guests were unmarried? She had half-a-mind to leave on principal alone.

"We're going to be married" Peter's level-headed voice deterred her from acting. "We're in Dublin to look at venues actually. Do you offer packages here?"

At this, their venerable host appeared to prick up her ears. Principals be damned when an illustrious wedding package was all to play for.

"I'll get you a leaflet" she volunteered, gladly. "And a King Double, was it? I'll give you our Honeymoon Suite."

Assumpta grinned triumphantly. This was shaping up to be a pretty good holiday.

…

The room confounded expectations. The centre of the room was occupied with a large four-poster bed with an ottoman at its foot. It faced a large bay window with French Doors leading on to a balcony which stretched the entire width of the room. Back inside, a copper free-standing bath was hidden behind an antique room divider – gloriously eccentric, but completely to Assumpta's quirky taste. To cap it off, there was a fireplace big enough to stand in.

"There's complimentary wine in the chiller – glasses right above." Norma bustled around the room, straightening chairs which seldom needed straightening. "Breakfast served 8 til 10" she eyed them suspiciously, anticipating a question. "Room service is not available."

"Thank you," Peter smiled genuinely. "This is really, well – it's exactly what we need."

She nodded accordingly and left the pair to their room. "8 til 10, don't be late."

Assumpta and Peter shared bashfully at one another when they were finally alone. Their eyes drifted nervously, yet surreptitiously to the bed – their bed – each anxious over whether to be the first to take a place on it.

It was up to Assumpta to break the impasse. "Scouting for wedding venues, eh?" she asked him, taking her side on the four poster.

"Not out of the realm of possibility."

Assumpta made room for the curate next to her on the bed, hoping that he might join her. "You might want an engagement first" she yawned lazily, stretching her entire length to fill the bed. "It is a necessary step."

"Is that so?" Peter turned his back to her, unable to trust hiding the broad grin on his face. Yet again, the Edwardian diamond he'd been carrying in his pocket threatened to reveal itself.

"I am so reliably informed."

Assumpta deadpanned as best she could, not wanting to give her true thoughts on the matter away.

Peter reached into the chiller and brought over a complimentary bottle of fizz. "I wouldn't lose any sleep over it" he announced confidently, assuming his spot on the bed. "That part's coming."

"Oh?"

"It is" he responded cryptically. "sooner than you may think."

This felt like a very real and very grown up conversation to be having at one in the morning in the midst of your illicit affair with a Priest, but still, something inside of Assumpta was doing cartwheels at the prospect that this was not only just on the cards for them, it was a sure thing.

She was never anti-marriage as such, she'd just never entertained the possibility of such a thing happening to her. She ran the idea by her inner sardonic self and they were mutually decided – for Peter, their answer would be a resounding positive.

"I like the sound of that," she ventured, taking a swig of champagne from the bottle like a rebel. "There are so few surprises when you're all grown up. Well – your curate declaring his undying love for you, aside."

Peter couldn't help but laugh at this. "I suppose I could have delivered the news softly." His mind wandered to the night that this whole thing began for them – that ordinary Sunday night when something inside of him seemed to flip. Before then, Peter had been unhappy for quite some time. Disillusioned – almost certainly – angry and perhaps even a bit depressed. It was effecting the sort of Priest he'd become, it was effecting the person he'd become – and the curate didn't like it, not a jot.

"What made you come over that night? Did something happen?" For weeks, Assumpta had wanted to ask this question. There was no build up to his grand revelation – they were friends one moment, lovers the next. The only minor indication that there was something else between them resided in the countless 'almosts' which had filled their friendship. The time she was dead set on going to Dublin but Peter's off-the-cuff revelation that he _cared for her_ had prevented it. Or the evening he'd spent drinking with her after hours, when she'd asked him if he'd ever wanted what he couldn't have… Assumpta inwardly cringed at that one. Asking a curate such a question – _what the hell was she thinking?_

Peter's own outward cringe snapped her from this reverie. "You can't ask me that! I'm embarrassed enough already."

The publican smiled, understanding all too well why he'd be uncomfortable with reliving that particular episode of his life. "Worked, didn't it?" she assured him.

"He got the girl." Peter winked, coyly feeling altogether pleased that his gambit had paid off.

"Okay, okay… do you really want to know all this?"

"Yes, I really, really do."

"Fine, then if you're sitting comfortably, I'll begin…."


	8. Chapter 8

Peter fidgeted nervously with the neck of the bottle as he began to recant his tale….

"So, it was a Sunday I think you'll recall which is typically a full on day in a Priest's diary. At St Joseph's there's a Children's Mass, an afternoon Mass and nightly Virgil – a lot of scripture to remember, and a lot of talking. Talking" he smiled, as if remembering something anecdotal to his story. "You can forget about being a Priest if you can't talk for England – that's what they used to teach us in the seminary. Well, growing up, I suffered pretty badly with talking – I used to have this stutter which found its way to almost everything I said. At one point I was almost mute."

"I had no idea." Assumpta interjected, the concern that she felt for the younger Peter threatening to overwhelm her.

"My school, a Catholic boys school in Old Trafford, weren't so enlightened about how best to treat me and so, day after day, I was made to recite scripture in the broom closet of my classroom. The elder Priests, when they heard this, mistook it for piety and set me on the path to the priesthood."

Assumpta couldn't believe what she was hearing. The cruel machinations of his teachers aside – that was how Peter ended up becoming a Priest? Through a simple miscalculation?

"To this day, I use reciting scripture as a mechanism of sorts, to help me stave off my impediment. During Mass, _that Mass_ on that Sunday, I was doing the same. Until suddenly, I couldn't talk. My mind drew a blank. I could see the words before me, I could even form them in my head, but nothing would come out. Thankfully, the parishioners took it as an end to the sermon and filtered out accordingly, but even when I was left to myself, I was rendered completely speechless."

"What happened? What did you do next?"

Peter took a moment to answer, as if still battling his childhood demons. "An epiphany of sorts."

Assumpta sidled closer to the curate, equally concerned and enraptured by what he had to say. "Epiphany?" she goaded.

"You see, every day that I've been at St Josephs, since the first day that I clapped eyes on you in fact, I realise that I've never truly said the words in my sermons. I've recited them, sure – exactly how I did at school – but I've never really said them. You know? There's a difference."

"I wouldn't feel too bad about it Peter; I doubt there's a Priest in Ireland who does anything but _recite_ – "

"You see, I realised in that moment," he interrupted gently, as if needing to get this out "that whether I took a wedding or a baptism – _when I spoke the words_ – it was you that I was really thinking about. _You_ who my mind would invariably turn to, in everything that I was doing. And in that moment I knew that I was incapable of saying another thing until I told you that I loved you."

The context this had provided to Peter's former declaration made the publican's heart swell a notch. She remembered all too well, him coming to her back door past closing. She remembered the look on his face, the mixture of thrill and trepidation, the softening of his eyes as he held her in his gaze. He'd delivered his next words assuredly, as if they'd been itching to come out. In one short sentence, her life was thrown in complete disarray as she realised that hearing " _I love you_ … _I'm in love with you_ " from her curate was all that she needed in life.

"I love you," Assumpta whispered meaningfully as he finished recanting this story. "I'm in love with you, Peter."

Peter's eyes began to well as she said this, her voice as steady as a heartbeat – albeit not his heartbeat, currently.

"It's all I'll ever need to hear."


	9. Chapter 9

They awoke with fresh eyes the next day. Even the fact that they'd passed out in their clothes with an empty bottle of Champagne between them, did nothing to quieten their over-arching feeling of hope for the day and their future. Revelations had been made last night with oblique references to proposals of marriage. There was every reason to be beaming from ear to ear, which they were, all the way down to Breakfast.

It was then that it happened.

Peter, a few steps ahead of Assumpta saw it first – the other guests at Meadow's Retreat. Among the other mini-breaking couples was a coven of men dressed in black, occupying prime position in the Breakfast Room's Bay window.

The Bishop and two Parish Priests, all together eating muesli over the Sunday Papers. A three known well by Peter – and all three knew him all too well.

"Assumpta – I"

The panic was all over Peter's face. Without another word, Assumpta ascended back up the stairs but for the curate it was too late –

"Mr Clifford, good morning." Norma apprehended him from the foot of the stairs and led him into the breakfast room. "I have a table for your right here. Will your fiancée be joining us?"

"Sick," Peter managed to splutter, thinking a thousand miles an hour about how best to excuse himself before the Diocese noticed him there.

"Well, I'm sorry to hear that. Should I send for the doctor?"

Peter tried his best to keep his voice low, watching his peers from a distance "It's fine, thank you. In fact – " he added hastily, "I think I should go back and check on her."

"You sit down, duck." Norma poured him a large cup of coffee and arranged some toast on his plate. Peter got the impression that she'd been a mother to boys – now men that, no doubt, were still being waited on somewhere in the vicinity. "Now, you'll be wanting the full Irish no doubt. Coming up."

Peter wasn't really sure what to do. He was sat at the furthest table away from the Bishop's party with their backs to him. Should he just stay there? Would standing up now draw undue attention to him? He decided to risk it.

"Father Peter!"

Peter flinched back into his chair. The game was up. "Bishop," he said back by way of greeting. "Father Michael, John – how are you all?"

"Grand, just grand there." Father John spoke back. "Funny little world finding you here. Are you in town for the Cardinal's visit too?"

 _Oh great, there was now a Cardinal in the mix also._

"No, just taking some time. Sightseeing, you know."

"Sightseeing?" The Bishop eyed him suspiciously. "I think you mean something else, perhaps?"

The colour drained completely from Peter's face. Being caught in a lie wasn't great at the best of times – when your Holy Superior did it, it was something else altogether.

"A pub-seeing weekend – am I right?"

The Bishop and his comrades exploded into laughter. It seemed that Peter's reputation as a bar fly had preceded him – little did they know that it was just one pub in particular.

"We'd love to join you Peter, but we're house-bound all day – this exact spot, in fact."

"Strategizing." Father Mike said, tapping his index finger to his nose. "For his Holy Excellency's huddle."

Peter eyed him with incredulity. Cardinal's now had huddles? Catholicism was being dragged kicking and screaming into the 21st century. "So, you'll be down here all day – until bedtime?"

"Your man here runs a tight ship – everything has to be perfect." Ever the suck up, Father John grinned nauseatingly over to the Bishop.

"…and Norma here will keep us rich in _Barry's Tea_ , won't you then?"

Norma appeared from nowhere to deliver Peter his breakfast and to replenish each of their drinks. "You'll not be rich in anything else," she said with a wink.

Peter ate in silence as the other men returned to their Sunday papers and machinations, counting the minutes before he could leave without rousing suspicion.

This was going to be a long morning.

…

Back in the room, Assumpta filled her time by, well, filling the bath with hot water and every complimentary bottle of smellies she could lay her hands on. If she was to be stuck in this room, she'd make damn sure she'd be stuck in it in style.

She had changed into the hotel's complimentary bathrobe – available to purchase, naturally – and sat idly on the bath's edge, trailing patterns into the running water, inwardly seething at this morning's events.

Another interruption. _Yet another interruption._ They were damned if they did, and damned if they didn't it would seem.

Assumpta peeled off her robe and sank into the huge, copper-plate tub. The water immersed her small frame completely, it's warmth a blanket for her ill-temper.

She tried to decide why she was angry – poor luck aside, it was really no one's fault that they'd run into yet more clergy. This was Ireland, for goodness sake! You couldn't spit without hitting one – believe her, she'd tried.

She was principally angry because she was hungry – and hungry, because she was unlucky – unlucky enough to pick the only hotel in Dublin which housed three members of the clergy.

Well, four counting Peter, she conceded to herself.

 _Clergy_.

By all accounts he was still a Catholic Priest. So far, they had yet to do anything which would ruin his vocation entirely – no more than, if rumour were to be believed, any other Wicklow Priest has already done.

It was her principal reason for detesting the Catholic church as she had – the hypocrisy. In fact, every Priest she'd ever met had been a charlatan in some way, shape or form – every Priest had disappointed her, every Priest bar one.

 _Peter._

Assumpta dunked her head under water as if to wash away her sin. All it did was make her hair wet.

He was the best Priest her village had ever had. Honest, kind, open and well, modern – his departure from the cloth wouldn't be taken lightly by his congregation. Their relationship wouldn't be taken lightly either, she also realised. Assumpta had images of pitchforks and torches – of an organised boycott of her pub and livelihood. She anticipated much more than name-calling and abuse. She half expected to have an 'A' stitched onto her person.

They would have to leave town, that much was certain. Manchester, perhaps? Or somewhere exotic – Rome or Monte Carlo? _Australia_. She could make a good living pulling pints Down Under. Assumpta considered her options thoughtfully as the door to the room creaked open.

Peter was carrying a napkin parcel of food and a copy of _The Irish Times_. He might as well have been bringing her _What Priest!_ magazine for the good it would do her.

He stopped behind the antique room divider, nervous to come in. "You okay in there? I brought breakfast."

"Peter, won't you just come in? You've seen me naked before."

Hesitantly, the curate shuffled to the other side of the screen and sat on the closed lavatory. The pair studied one another for a moment, basking in this new and unfamiliar domesticity.

"Better not be thinking of using that toilet…"

And of course she had to spoil it.

Peter smirked and stared down at his feet. One by one he removed his shoes, socks and shirt.

"Getting naked for me now, are you?" Assumpta laid back into the high crest of the bathtub. "Bubbles and a show."

Tentatively, he unbuttoned his fly, doing so slowly as if he'd forgotten how to do this. It became immediately apparent that he was planning on joining her in the bath, which made Assumpta feel all kinds of funny. Aroused, almost certainly, but also bashful and shy. Her nudity became very apparent to her, all of a sudden.

And, upon the removal of his trousers, so did his.

Assumpta scooted up to give him access as Peter squeezed all 6ft 3inches of his frame into the now tepid water. With the absence of any other reasonable place to stow them, she wrapped her legs around his hips as he leaned into her embrace.

"So, are we stuck in here forever?"

"For the time being, at least."

Assumpta ran the heel of her foot along his inner thigh idly. "Shame," she whispered into his temple.

"I don't know how we'll wile away the hours."

"Got a crossword puzzle, perhaps?"

Peter felt as the arch of her foot gently massage his cock. _Ohhhh… is that what she really had in mind?_

"Is this what you Catholics call Purgatory?" she asked him carefully. "Being stuck somewhere without any hope to leave?"

"Nothing Purgatory about this…" he gasped as she replaced her foot with her hand, tugging him gently beneath the water.

"What if I kept you here indefinitely? Vacillating between two worlds – one where you're a Priest and I'm your publican…"

"That one didn't work for me," he interjected quickly.

"Then the other – where you go downstairs and tell those esteemed colleagues of yours that you're here on holiday with _your girlfriend_."

The malice in her voice and the sudden absence of her hand jarred the curate from his reverie. "You know that I can't do that" he told her seriously, pining for his happy place from just moments ago.

Assumpta moved him to the end of the bath to give her room enough to exit. He could tell by the way her body tensed that he was about to be the target of that infamous Fitzgerald rages.

He gave her a moment to calm down but when it seemed obvious that wouldn't materialise, he tried to reason with her. "You know that I need to leave on my own terms, Assumpta. There's protocol to follow – a code of departure."

"But telling Ambrose and Niamh was okay? You were all for making this public knowledge to prevent me from going out with anyone else – " By now she was back in her clothes and shoes, pacing on the Turkish rug behind him.

"They're our friends, Assumpta – it's hardly a direct line to the Vatican!"

Begrudgingly Peter exited the bath, pulling a towel around his waist. He'd hoped this morning would go better – or at the very least, differently. He sat down on the foot of the bed, hoping that she'd calm down enough to at least join him.

Instead she continued with her pacing. "What's your exit strategy, Peter? I need to know – do you even have one?"

He felt he had to answer her plainly. "Not as of yet – but Assumpta, you can't take that to mean that there won't be one. I'm committed to this – to you."

"So you keep saying –"

" – which is more, I might add, than you've ever said." Peter felt his temper rising. This was so completely unlike him but from nowhere he found the words which he felt needed to be said. "How do I know that you're committed to me, hmmm? How do I know that you're not just here for notch on your bedpost – hey, you defrocked a Priest! There's a story you can take to the bank. Have that boyfriend of yours, Leo, to write a sordid tell-all about your experi – "

It was then that Peter realised that he had gone too far.

Assumpta was no longer pacing. She was no longer angry. The only look on her face was that of unequivocal pain. _That_ was what he truly thought of her? That was what he believed?

"I – I have to go."

"Assumpta, wait." Peter stood up to follow her but by the time that he reached the door, he remembered he was dressed in only a towel. He cursed, uncharacteristically, and attempted to gather up his clothes and dress at speed. He'd all but forgotten about the coven of Priests downstairs. His only concern was getting to Assumpta – his only concern was to take back his words.

By the time he reached the front of the hotel, she was already gone. The Javelin remained parked in its usual spot and there were no transport links to speak of – where the hell was she?

This commotion of course, hadn't gone unnoticed by the Bishop. A voice spoke solemnly from behind, "Something troubling you there, Peter?"

He waited a beat and turned to face his superior. No further questions were required – Peter wore his pain like a death mask.

"I think we'd better go in, don't you?"

...

 _A/N - Thanks again for your lovely reviews. Just a few more chapters left of this one i'm afraid - and perhaps an M-rated epilogue if there's any demand!_


	10. Chapter 10

Wordlessly, the elder led the younger man in. Thankfully Priests Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum had vacated the breakfast room. Peter didn't relish an audience for what he had to say.

"It's a woman," he announced quietly.

The Bishop leaned back in his chair and responded softly, "It always is."

Peter was grateful for his understanding – with the Bishop, it could go either way. If he liked you, you were in his graces forever; if not, you would ever be the subject of his wrath.

"You're with this woman? The woman that you brought here?"

"In a way, yes."

"Something casual?" the elder curate probed. "Something you'd be looking to end soon?"

Peter stared down at his shoes. _Was he really going to do this?_ "I don't think so." He paused, half waiting for a response from the Bishop, half waiting for a response from himself.

Nothing came immediately, so he decided to just speak from the heart.

"This woman, she's important." Peter began. "This isn't what you think."

"And what to I think, Father Clifford?"

"An affair," Peter began "A fleeting thing." He took an arduous breath, knowing all too well how difficult what came next would be to say. "I'm in love."

The Bishop gave a long sigh which, if Peter were a betting man, seemed to sound like an acceptance of sorts. _When they're in love, there really isn't much else to say._

"You're a good Priest, Peter. An asset to your parish – to Ireland" he rocked back in his chair, the same habit that Peter had when faced with a problem. "The young folk, they like you. Your Parish Priest on the other hand…"

Father Mac's grizzled expression flashed in front of the younger curate's eyes. At least he wasn't having to do this with him.

"We've had our differences in the past…" was all Peter could in all good conscience add to this.

"Well, he'll be as disappointed as I am to be losing you."

Peter's ear's pricked up at his. He decided to seize his moment. "So, is there a protocol? Do I just… walk away?"

"There's nothing we can really do to stop you."

"And…" he stuttered over his next words, an old affliction back to haunt him. "Ex-communication? Will the Catholic Church still accept me?"

"I'll put in a word with the Big Man upstairs. Something tells me it'll be fine."

Peter wasn't sure if he meant God or the Vatican, but he'd take it either way.

There was an awkward minute at the end of their conversation, in which neither man knew quite what to do. In a decisive moment, Peter stood up and shook hands with his superior.

"I'm not quite sure where to go from here" he admitted.

"Well, something tells me that you have some bread to break and fences to mend."

"You could be right."

And with that, Peter went out to find Assumpta.

...

If he'd been guided by his head rather than pure, blind panic, Peter would have found Assumpta a far bit sooner than he had. If he'd allowed it, sense would have prevailed and he'd have realised that the only place she could be was, indeed, the only place she was – in the petrol station over the road.

This was a services after all, and what's a services without an obligatory, overpriced petrol station selling – alongside the obvious – coffee in oversized receptacles, roughly the size of your head, and cigarettes. Lots of cigarettes.

It was exactly what Assumpta could do with at this precise moment. Well, her first choice was vodka but it was still morning and this was Ireland, after all.

She managed to hold it together enough in front of the cashier but as soon as she stepped foot outside, the tears began to flow.

 _A story you can take to the bank._

It was more than just a cheap shot.

That he'd even had this thought in his head was bad enough, but the fact that he used it – so readily, she might add – against her was too much to bear.

Did he really doubt her affections that much? Was he so paranoid to assume this was all some great ruse at his expense?

Assumpta walked over to the picnic tables next to the Burger restaurant and lit her cigarette. It dissolved like acid in her throat but she didn't care – at times like this she wanted to do something reckless, something that was completely out of character. She wanted an escape from herself, even just for a moment.

It didn't even matter that she detested it.

She took a long drag from her cigarette and an even longer drink from her coffee to disguise the taste.

It occurred to her that this all came about after she asked if Peter had an exit strategy. He'd attacked her immediately after this question which spoke volumes about its answer.

He had none. In all honesty, she doubted it had even occurred to Peter that he'd need one.

 _All in…_ it was such bull. He was _all in_ as long as he didn't have to make any actual changes to his lifestyle. Sure, he'd kiss her, tell her he loved her – he may have even broken his vows with her eventually, but as far as leaving the Church was concerned, it was never on his radar.

Assumpta knew in that moment that she'd never be happy to be his mistress – that kind of deceit just wasn't in her. It would break her in two.

She knew in that moment that she'd have to end it.

Her heart ached as she formalised this notion in her head.

She couldn't end it… Peter was the only man she'd ever loved in this way. The only man she'd ever _been with_ apart from her college boyfriend.

Leo.

Peter had touched a nerve when he spoke his name.

In all honesty, Leo had been the one thing in her life that she'd never recovered from. Her parent's deaths and Leo.

 _Leo._

She hated that the pain he'd caused her had been on a par with becoming an 20-year-old orphan. It didn't help that the moment he'd walked out of her life had been the moment that her parent's became sick, one after the other, like fallen dominoes. For her, the pain had always been synonymous.

He wasn't to know, of course, and could hardly be blamed. They hadn't given their relationship a title as such – _friends with benefits_ , she supposed. But they had been doing their dance for more than a year before he decided to call it quits.

She'd had very little to compare it to, that pain. It was probably why she couldn't so easily forgive Peter for his outburst. Assumpta had a hard time imagining how anyone would want to accept her – all of her – for an entire lifetime. How anyone could be all in.

For months after Leo left her for a career in London's Fleet Street, Assumpta imagined she saw him everywhere. In the window of a bus. Sat nursing a pint in the corner of her pub. Even today, she could have sworn he was pumping petrol into that ostentatious Porsche of his…

"Hello Assumpta."

With a start, the publican looked up.

And there he was.

"Leo?"

...

 _A/N Dun, dun...DUN :) Sorry for the delay with posting. Thanks for all of your lovely reviews. They do give me a much needed kick up the backside when i'm being complacent._


	11. Chapter 11

The pair remained staring, open-mouthed, at one another for a full minute before common decency prevailed.

"What are you doing here?" Assumpta half stood up to embrace her former flame, but soon thought better of it.

"Well," Leo began. "I've been keeping tabs on your from London. Heard you'd abandoned your business, joined the circus and then defected to a Little Chef with nothing but coffee and - ohhhh _Lucky Strike_ , _tut tut."_

"Leo, be serious."

Wordlessly, he helped himself to a cigarette from the packet and sat down beside her. "Just lucky I guess."

Assumpta extinguished her cigarette against the damp wooden table. "Of all the gin joints, in all the land…"

"Maybe someone's trying to tell us something?"

"Don't you start."

Leo looked at her seriously. "Well, I for one am happy to run into you. It's been a bloody awful day."

"Day?" Assumpta looked at her watch. "Little premature there…"

"Well, day – night – _everything_. I've been driving since dawn, I'm on a deadline and I'm… I'm complaining too much, aren't I?"

"If the shoe fits" she smirked, good-naturedly. "If it's any consolation, I'm not so great myself."

"You're always great."

"Not lately" she reached for another cigarette that she didn't want. "Not now."

"Well, I'm a good listener, or so I've been told…"

" – before you air their dirty laundry in the press!"

Leo smirked. "Off the record, for you."

Assumpta thought back at Peter's previous outburst. _Have that boyfriend of yours, Leo, to write a sordid tell-all…_

If he saw them now.

"It's a man" she began cagily, deciding ahead of time to protect the innocent _and_ the guilty. "He won't commit."

"To you? I find that hard to believe."

Assumpta couldn't help but notice a quiver in her former lover's voice. Feeling secretly vindicated by this response, she continued, "He's not strictly available – yet. Says he'll become available, _eventually_ , but refuses to tell me when."

"Ah, married."

She relented. _Close enough. "_ You could say that."

"Well," he took a drag from his cigarette. "Ordinarily, I'd say that a man whose attentions were otherwise engaged isn't a sure thing. I'd tell whomever was wrapped up in that situation to excuse themselves immediately and rush, theatrically, into the arms of the handsome journo who'd serendipitously appeared at the very same Little Chef off the Dublin Orbital…"

"That's some advice," she smiled genuinely. He always had a knack for cheering her up.

Leo looked at her seriously. "But, something tells me this is no ordinary situation."

"It's not."

The Irishman pursed his lips, took a final drag of his cigarette and extinguished its butt, like punctuation at the end of the sentence. "In that case, I'd let his actions do the talking."

"Actions?"

"If he's half as serious about you as he seemed to be the last time I came to BallyK, I don't think you've anything to worry about."

Assumpta took a sharp intake of breath. "Who says it's anyone you know?"

Leo gave her a look which silently told her _Please_ … so she decided not to pursue the ruse any farther.

"Enough about _him_ anyhow", her companion announced, jealousy tinged in his voice. "You up for a spin in the Porsche?"

Assumpta smiled, gratefully. She hoped he was right, that soon Peter's actions from being _all in_ had surpassed his words. For now though, she thought it prudent that the curate was given time to digest their situation – to establish a way forward for them both which weighed more than the paper-thin promises he'd made to her.

Fortified by her decision, Assumpta stood up with her friend and told him, "You lead the way."

…

Peter's thoughts raced as he tried to find her. Following his talk with the Bishop, he tried several places before it had occurred to him to head over to the petrol station and restaurant, but by then Assumpta had already left.

As he sat gloomily on one of the picnic tables outside of the Little Chef – the very same table she had been at minutes earlier – and stared disgustedly at the cigarette butts which clumsily adorned it, Peter had the panicked realisation that he may have well-and-truly blown it.

Assumpta was _gone_. Perhaps from his life altogether.

He tried to quell the sickness building in his stomach. How had he allowed this to happen? He bit his lip in a bid to retroactively dispel those painful words he'd uttered to her just an hour before.

Peter wasn't exactly sure where his venom had come from. He certainly didn't think any of it to be true. It all came from a place of fear and uncertainty. Of knowing that he had something _very real_ and _very precious_ in his grasp but it threatened to disappear if he didn't watch his step.

Nothing was ever indelible. In his entire life, nothing had ever gone according to plan, so why should this be any different? As much as he tried to believe someone like Assumpta would actually denigrate herself to be with someone like him, it never seemed likely. Peter was always waiting for the other shoe to drop. He supposed it had occurred to him that she came for the collar and nothing else, but he'd buried those fears so deeply inside that it shocked even he when those uncertainties manifested themselves into actual words.

 _A notch on her bedpost_. Peter smirked. Chance would've been a fine thing. He realised then that his fear of intimacy – of doing _that ultimate thing_ was just a hangover from his former life. Catholic guilt, you might say. For there was nothing wrong with being fully and completely with the person who had your heart completely. Married, not or somewhere in between – it didn't negate the feelings he had for Assumpta, or – god-willing – the feelings she returned. It was in that moment – outside that derelict Little Chef, located in the forgotten corner of nowhere – that Peter made a vow to replace the one he'd made to the Church: he would find Assumpta and he'd ask her to marry him, and if she accepted, he'd give himself completely to her. He owed her that much.

Before he knew it, Peter was back in the Javelin and en-route back to Ballykissangel, excited and terrified, in equal measure, about what awaited him there.

…

Assumpta could only watch as the Porsche turned around the corner, leaving her to walk the rest of the way back into Ballykissangel.

Leo had offered to driver her back home of course, but that would have taken some explaining when Peter found out that her old boyfriend had indeed been the person she turned to when things went south between them.

It was all such a mess.

In some ways it was comforting to know that Leo would always be there for her, no matter what. He was the easy choice, good job, great car, no collar… but, try as she might, he just didn't set her heart-rate pulsing as that certain Mancunian had.

In the distance, over the rolling hills of Wicklow, she could tell it was starting to rain. _Great_ , she thought. This was some pretty dumb luck she'd been having. As soon as she realised it, the downpour began, soaking her through-and-through. She thought about running, dashing to the nearest cowshed but really, as the rainwater permeated every inch of clothing she wore, Assumpta realised there'd be no point.

So, she simply carried on walking, allowing the precipitation to roll off her as if she were entirely hydrophobic, and not just soaked to the core. It was freeing, somehow, to be this hopelessly wet. It stung her to realise that it was a little like being in love – being so wrapped up in the other person that there was really not much else you could do. Assumpta pulled her jacket tight around her, allowing its saturated fibres to give her a reassuring hug – _it would all be okay… he'd take back what he said and she'd allow it. They were going to be fine._

But a nagging voice at the back of her head reminded her that with Peter, since when was it ever that easy?

…

As exited the motorway, the main roads and then the turning which promised Ballykissangel – 4 miles, Peter rehearsed what he'd say to Assumpta when he caught up with her –

 _I'm sorry… you have every right to be angry._

 _I didn't mean what I said – any of it._

 _I was riled up… you always rile me up. I wasn't thinking straight._

The problem was, every line he tried would elicit an equally compelling response by his reckoning –

 _Do I need your permission to be angry?_

 _Then why say it?_

 _On your bike, Peter._

He'd known Assumpta for so long now that his ability to anticipate her retorts was almost standard. He knew what she was about to say, perhaps even before she did. In any case, nothing that he could conjure up would convey the abject remorse and misery that he honestly felt.

Peter hoped for a _eureka_ moment when faced with the publican again. He would get it together before he saw her next – perhaps he'd even have time to plan some grand romantic gesture. He'd figure something out, he was sure to. He refused to believe that this could be well and truly it for their epic romance – a romance that had barely even begun.

As he approached a figure walking along the side of the road, Peter realised that he was about to have his moment.

 _Assumpta…_

He slowed the car the a crawl until she was level with his door. Peter rolled down the window and asked, weakly "I'm going to Ballykissangel. Need a lift?"

He remembered those words vividly, first spoken by Assumpta as he trawled through the grass and mud on his inaugural visit to the village he'd later call home. He was so grateful for the offer, he recalled. Grateful to get out from the cold and rid his burdened shoulders from that dreadful backpack. He remembered how those feelings of gratitude were soon replaced by something altogether different when he finally looked at her – _really looked at her_ – and instantly felt like he was home.

Now, years later, it seemed unlikely that Assumpta shared even an ounce of this sentiment as she marched faster from his window.

"Cute," she remarked, snippily.

"Assumpta – "

Peter realised in that moment that he needed to ditch the car and run after her. If she wasn't going to come to him, he'd have no choice but to go to her.

"Assumpta, hold on…"

The publican carried on as if his pleas were just white noise. She managed these hills a fair bit faster than Peter – practice, no doubt. He wondered briefly, with a pang, how many other boys she'd stormed away from like this. Peter refused to let her beat him.

"Wait…" he lunged to prevent her from going any further, a motion which the publican flinched away from as if it were hazardous to her health. She didn't carry on up the hill any further, however. For now, his entreaty had worked.

"What I said… it was all rubbish. I'm full of rubbish. Of course I don't think any of that… you know that that person isn't me"

"Then who is it, _hmmm_? Sure looked like you, sure sounded – "

"My insecurities." Peter interjected, honestly. "My fears. Assumpta, I can't for the life of me understand why you would want anything to do with me – now or then. You're this remarkable, beautiful – just this incredible individual and I have nothing, literally nothing. No reason for anyone to want to have me or be with me. And I'm afraid. I'm so afraid that I'll wake up and none of this will be real – that I'll be back to being an arms' length away from you and I won't be able to close the gap."

Peter took a breath, studying the publican the entire time for some glimmer of hope – some sign that he was getting through to her.

"If that were to happen, that arm's length very well may be a canyon because I won't be able to touch your face, or hold your hand or tell you how much I love you – how much I've always loved you."

At this revelation, Assumpta's cool exterior seemed to fracture slightly. She took a breath and averted her eyes in a bid to regain her composure.

Peter saw this as a very bad sign. He needed to get her back. He needed to bring her back to him – "It's why I left the priesthood, just after you left. It's why I told the Bishop about everything. I made a vow, in that moment, you see. I knew that when I finally found you again I'd make sure that I'd never lose you" he paused to allow his words to sink in. "I now know what it means to be all in – I had no right to promise you that before, as a Priest. You deserve better – so much better and, if you'll take me, my commitment to you will never be anything but."

Peter fumbled for his pocket, for the small brown envelope containing his mother's classic solitaire engagement ring – an item she'd bequeathed to him as the dementia took hold… _just in case_ . His hand shook as he removed the ring, stymied entirely by the gale-force storm which seemed to be ripping through the valley at this precise moment.

When at last he had her attention again, Peter dropped to his knees and held out the ring in front of him. He intended to speak words but yet again, his voice had failed him. He took a breath and tried again but uttered nothing.

All the while he struggled with speech, Assumpta was oblivious, instead focussing on the words he had already said, the impossible gesture that he was making and, without forgetting, the world's most perfect diamond he was brandishing in a bid to make her see reason.

Her face was already so wet Assumpta was only aware of her tears as she tasted them, their visceral saline bringing her back to the here and now. She felt herself drop to her knees to join him, hold his head in her hands and kiss him urgently and happily, a gesture which brought Peter back to life.

"I l-love you Assumpta. I want to marry you. I know that this is sudden but I want you to know where this has been heading for me – where it's always been heading. I'll understand completely if you want to put a pin in this decision for now. I get – "

Again Peter's voice was silenced but this time it wasn't of his own volition. Assumpta caught his mouth with hers and nodded her response.

"I can't see why not?" she jibed with a smile, pulling away from his smitten embrace.

Assumpta realised as she stood, pulling her future husband to his feet, that this was indeed the exact spot where she'd met Peter all those years ago. The O'Leary farm, the location of their ill-fated union, could be seen in the distance along with the spire of St Joseph's and a speck of yellow from the façade of her pub. Their life, as they'd known it, was still there waiting – in the village they'd met and ultimately, fallen in love. However, she wagered, it was going to be altogether different now as they drove into Ballykissangel together, united, and almost definitely all in.

...

 _A/N That's all folks! Thanks for all of the lovely comments for this story. Have half an idea for a new fic, based on what Peter really ought to have done when Assumpta came back all married. What do you reckon? Does it have legs? :)_


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